face and tenderly wraps an arm around
her. Strange noises surface. For a moment he thinks she’s breathing. Rising from the dead. He places an ear to her heart and
listens for a beat. Nothing. Hemoves down her torso, hands on her slim hips, cheek against her smooth abdomen. Now he knows what it is.
Gasses and liquids inside her. She might be dead but there are things living inside her – organisms feeding in her intestines
– little parts of Em that are still alive. Life after death. He wonders if there are thoughts still in her brain moving like
the bacteria, twitching in their final throes. Do memories just vanish like a heartbeat or do they hang around after the final
breath and putrefy over hours, days or months? He knows the brain can be kept alive when all other organs are dead. Perhaps
that’s where the soul is.
He slides up alongside her and looks into the empty eyes and says something he’s never said before. ‘I love you.’
It feels good. Saying it. It’s what God wants. God is love. God has brought him Em. She is his. He puts his mouth close to
her face. ‘I do, Em. I love you. I really do.’
35
VATICAN CITY
Two Swiss Guards accompany the special advisor through the Cortile de Sisto V, the courtyard of Sixtus the Fifth, the former
swineherd turned Pope. Their boots clatter as they briskly climb stone steps to the top floor of the Apostolic Palace. Since
the seventeenth century the ten rooms in frontof them, including a medical suite, have formed the
appartamento nobile,
the official winter residence of the Supreme Pontiff.
The papal secretary shows Andreas Pathykos through the vestibule and leaves him in the small study. The earnest Greek has
known the Holy Father for thirty years. He is his eyes and ears in the outside world. Andreas paces until the doors open and
his old friend enters.
‘Your Holiness.’ He bows, then adds, ‘I trust you are well.’
The old Pontiff smiles. ‘As much as a mere man of eighty ever will be. You told my secretary you had urgent news?’
‘I did.’ His demeanour changes. ‘It is not good, I am afraid.’
The Holy Father eases himself into a high-backed chair. ‘Urgent appointments seldom bring good tidings.’
‘The lady writer – she is dead.’
The Pontiff looks shaken. ‘God bless her.’ He makes the Sign of the Cross. ‘Under what circumstances did she pass?’
‘She was found in the sea close to where she lives in America. It was not an accident. We are reliably informed that the Los
Angeles Police Department is treating her death as murder.’
The Pope lowers his head in solemn contemplation. Later he will pray for her soul. And he will pray that the worst of his
imaginings is not true.
The advisor does not add any more details, certainly not the bloodier ones that he knows – the loss of an eye, the torture.
His Holiness looks up. A pale blue gaze that has seenmuch sin and witnessed much wisdom falls upon his trusted servant. ‘Andreas Pathykos, if you have any information that can
help the police catch this lady’s killer, you must inform the authorities.’
‘I understand, Your Holiness.’
‘The Church has done much to unite the factions, the modernists and the orthodox, but we cannot be the friends of extremists.’
‘Holy Father—’
The Pontiff stops him with a raised palm. ‘They mean well but are overzealous. History has taught us this much.’
‘Indeed, Your Eminence.’
‘And the other matter. Is the book now closed on that?’
Pathykos flinches. ‘I think not. I am afraid to speculate that it is just the opposite. This unfortunate death is most likely
to keep the pages fixed open – for some time.’
36
WALNUT PARK, LOS ANGELES
At 5 a.m. Mitzi begins her new life.
She puts away the whisky, brews fresh coffee and sorts through bills that can’t be put off any longer. The soul-destroying
sift reminds her that the girls are going skiing with the school at the weekend and the
her. Strange noises surface. For a moment he thinks she’s breathing. Rising from the dead. He places an ear to her heart and
listens for a beat. Nothing. Hemoves down her torso, hands on her slim hips, cheek against her smooth abdomen. Now he knows what it is.
Gasses and liquids inside her. She might be dead but there are things living inside her – organisms feeding in her intestines
– little parts of Em that are still alive. Life after death. He wonders if there are thoughts still in her brain moving like
the bacteria, twitching in their final throes. Do memories just vanish like a heartbeat or do they hang around after the final
breath and putrefy over hours, days or months? He knows the brain can be kept alive when all other organs are dead. Perhaps
that’s where the soul is.
He slides up alongside her and looks into the empty eyes and says something he’s never said before. ‘I love you.’
It feels good. Saying it. It’s what God wants. God is love. God has brought him Em. She is his. He puts his mouth close to
her face. ‘I do, Em. I love you. I really do.’
35
VATICAN CITY
Two Swiss Guards accompany the special advisor through the Cortile de Sisto V, the courtyard of Sixtus the Fifth, the former
swineherd turned Pope. Their boots clatter as they briskly climb stone steps to the top floor of the Apostolic Palace. Since
the seventeenth century the ten rooms in frontof them, including a medical suite, have formed the
appartamento nobile,
the official winter residence of the Supreme Pontiff.
The papal secretary shows Andreas Pathykos through the vestibule and leaves him in the small study. The earnest Greek has
known the Holy Father for thirty years. He is his eyes and ears in the outside world. Andreas paces until the doors open and
his old friend enters.
‘Your Holiness.’ He bows, then adds, ‘I trust you are well.’
The old Pontiff smiles. ‘As much as a mere man of eighty ever will be. You told my secretary you had urgent news?’
‘I did.’ His demeanour changes. ‘It is not good, I am afraid.’
The Holy Father eases himself into a high-backed chair. ‘Urgent appointments seldom bring good tidings.’
‘The lady writer – she is dead.’
The Pontiff looks shaken. ‘God bless her.’ He makes the Sign of the Cross. ‘Under what circumstances did she pass?’
‘She was found in the sea close to where she lives in America. It was not an accident. We are reliably informed that the Los
Angeles Police Department is treating her death as murder.’
The Pope lowers his head in solemn contemplation. Later he will pray for her soul. And he will pray that the worst of his
imaginings is not true.
The advisor does not add any more details, certainly not the bloodier ones that he knows – the loss of an eye, the torture.
His Holiness looks up. A pale blue gaze that has seenmuch sin and witnessed much wisdom falls upon his trusted servant. ‘Andreas Pathykos, if you have any information that can
help the police catch this lady’s killer, you must inform the authorities.’
‘I understand, Your Holiness.’
‘The Church has done much to unite the factions, the modernists and the orthodox, but we cannot be the friends of extremists.’
‘Holy Father—’
The Pontiff stops him with a raised palm. ‘They mean well but are overzealous. History has taught us this much.’
‘Indeed, Your Eminence.’
‘And the other matter. Is the book now closed on that?’
Pathykos flinches. ‘I think not. I am afraid to speculate that it is just the opposite. This unfortunate death is most likely
to keep the pages fixed open – for some time.’
36
WALNUT PARK, LOS ANGELES
At 5 a.m. Mitzi begins her new life.
She puts away the whisky, brews fresh coffee and sorts through bills that can’t be put off any longer. The soul-destroying
sift reminds her that the girls are going skiing with the school at the weekend and the
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